A Tale of Two Factions
by amls9gs
Summary: What will happen when the Raiders finally have enough of the Minutemen? Rated M for language, graphic violence, and possible smut.


Chapter 1: Whisper

The biting wind whistled through the tree branches as I shifted me weight to line up me shot. The rotten branch I was perched on shuddered, and I swore quietly. I didn't like heights as it was, but Paladin Fuckface had insisted they try a stealth approach on the raider boss first, and since MacCready was layed up with a shot to the gut, I was the next best sniper and the smallest of the group.

 _I'd bet if tin can got out of his armor for longer than it took to shit and shower he'd be light enough to get up here,_ I thought irritably. I was being irrational, I knew. I just _really_ hated heights.

Something small and solid pinged off the scope of my rifle, not hard enough to be a bullet but enough to make me nearly jump out of me skin. I clung to the branch and cursed as quietly as I could. The rifle slid off-focus. I glared over the side of me perch to see a pair of black sunglasses staring back up at me, unabashed grin flashing white teeth.

 _What?_ I mouthed, incensed.

"Don't forget to turn the safety off," Deacon said in an exaggerated whisper, grinning even harder and throwing me a sarcastic thumbs-up. I turned away with a huff. A soft clap and an "ow" reached me, indicating that someone, probably Cait, had cuffed Deacon over the head. _Good,_ I thought. This is why I didn't like taking Deacon on group stealth missions. He fed off everyone else's energy, particularly when the energy got tense, and the only energy Danse knew was tense.

I had initially argued against more than one person accompanying me, but Deacon and Cait had argued so strongly to tag along I knew I'd be better off just letting them join. I had a nasty feeling it had something to do with my returning from the Institute a few days before. Danse, for once, had agreed, saying they could use the manpower if things went south. I was half-tempted to take his temperature; he would rather saw off his own arm than agree with Deacon.

I lined up the shot again, my annoyance ebbing away. This was initially going to be attempted with sniper fire only, but depending on the number of Charlies, that could change. With the recent raider attacks mounting in frequency, even Preston was feeling bloodthirsty, especially when MacCready had been injured. Preston didn't take lightly to team casualties, almost more than any of us.

We tracked the Raider Gang to USAF Satellite Olivia, and it seemed as though the group had recently relocated. I counted 10 Charlies, smaller than the usual raider force. They probably hadn't replenished the numbers since their last attack spree.

I had a nagging feeling in my gut, and if it was right, we would be in for a world of hurt. The Minutemen had been antagonizing the Raiders for months now. The Raiders may have decided it was time to mount a full scale offensive, and were strategically placing themselves to attack the main settlements. If my gut was right, this would mean full on war, and a possibility for the Raiders to take full control of the Commonwealth. That is, if the Institute didn't cut in.

The Raider Boss was a large woman with rippling muscles and tattoos covering every inch of skin that went by the name Ripper. She'd been to one of the attacks on Sanctuary, offering us peace if we surrendered ourselves and our supplies. Obviously, we gave them the middle finger. She'd turned tail as her men and women were killed. Typical Raider, absolute coward. She was sitting on a pile of crates with her lieutenants flanking either side, nearly as bulky as she was. Slaves moved large crates, shock collars ringing their necks, looking frail and malnourished. One of them, a girl no older than fourteen, dropped her crate and fell to her knees, scrambling to pick up the Fancy Lad's snack cakes that had poured out of it. Ripper hopped down off her crate and pulled a cattle prod off her belt, the tip crackling menacingly.

Shit. Intervention required.

I looked over the side of my branch to meet Danse's steady brown gaze. _Hostages,_ I mouthed. His mouth set into a grim line and he nodded, then slid his power armor helmet on and motioned the team forward. The creaking of his power armor sounded louder than normal.

I turned back to my scope in time to see Ripper raise the cattle prod. _Shit_. I fired as the team below picked up a sprint, the ground shaking with Danse's every footfall. The shot caught ripper in the jugular, blood gushing from her mouth as she fell. She writhed on the ground as her guards roared and charged into the fray, laser fire splitting the air. The young slave scurried to the wall of the nearby bunker, cowering under the window.

I strapped the sniper rifle to my back. _I need to get down there_. I looked over the side of the branch at the ground 20 feet below. Getting up here had been one thing with a power armor hoist, but getting down in time to contribute would be another. A cold pool of fear settled in my stomach and I contemplated several small clusters of branches making their way down the side of the trunk. _Grow some ovaries, dammit_.

I took several deep breaths and got to my knees, feeling the branch creak under me. Despite my efforts, I was shaking like a leaf. I took one more breath before I launched myself off the branch and caught the next one with my hands. Unfortunately for me, I overestimated the strength of the mostly-dead tree and the branch snapped, sending me plummeting 15 feet to the ground. I landed on my side and heard a sharp _crack_. A sharp pain ripped through my side and arm. I winced as I rolled to my back. Definitely broke my arm, and probably a few ribs.

"Majestic." I glared up at Deacon's sly grin. "I've never been so moved by such grace."

"Douche." I wheezed, struggling to sit up.

"Easy there," Deacon squatted and eased his arms under me, dragging me up to lean against the trunk of the tree with a surprising strength. It was getting more difficult to breathe, my chest tightening uncomfortably. Deacon was digging through his pockets frantically, finally pulling out a stimpak and some med-x. He pulled out a combat knife and cut through the leather binding of my chest plate and cast it aside, then injected the stimpak into my side, followed by the med x in my hip. My breathing eased and my chest relaxed.

"Thanks," I sighed as the med-x took effect, casting a dream-like filter over everything. Deacon grinned and gave me another stimpak in my arm.

"Don't mention it, boss," He braced my elbow against his knee and unzipped his leather jacket.

"Shouldn't you be helping?" Deacon pulled off his jacket with a derisive snort.

"Once Ripper's girlfriends were dead the rest of them scattered," Deacon pulled his shirt over his head, knocking his glasses askew in the process and exposing a flash of electric blue eyes. He hurriedly fixed them and began turning the shirt into a bandage. "Paladin asked me to come back and help you."

"He's the one in the power armor," I grumbled as Deacon rolled up his jacket and placed it between my upper arm and my ribs. He took the bandage strips and secured my entire arm to my torso. As he leaned close I caught a whiff of… was that Sandalwood?

"I don't ask too many questions, I just try not to piss him off," I snorted as Deacon sat back and quirked a smile. "At least not out here, where he can bury my body without a trace. That is, if he could catch me."

"You'd be surprised what I can accomplished when given the perfect incentive," Danse appeared out of nowhere, toting a large bag that appeared to be filled with bits and pieces of scrap. He put it down next to her. "I took the liberty of clearing the area of scrap, since you would probably blow out my eardrums for not doing so."

I chuckled and winced, a sharp pain lancing through my side. Danse's brow furrowed in concern, then flicked to topless Deacon.

"She fell out of the tree," He said, shrugging nonchalantly. "Probably a few broken ribs and a broken arm. Nothing stimpaks and rest won't cure."

"And you're shirtless because?"

"Hey, I needed bandages!"

Danse leaned over and took something off the back of Deacon's belt, holding it up with a raised eyebrow. It was a first aid kit. Deacon shrugged without an ounce of shame. Danse rolled his eyes and hooked the first aid kit to him.

"Let's just get back," I said as Cait and the slaves approached them, one arm around the young girl. "We need to get these people some medical attention and a night's sleep."

"Maybe some for you too," Deacon said, helping me to my feet. The world swung around me and stars popped against my eyes. I felt Deacon steady me and pull my good arm over his wiry shoulders, easing me forward. My vision cleared and I saw Danse looking at Deacon, a dark tone in his eyes I couldn't put my finger on. He turned and beckoned everyone forward, Cait and the slaves at the front of the pack, Deacon and I limping along in the middle, and Danse protecting the rear.

"You think tin can will ever stop scowling like that whenever he's around the rest of us?" Deacon asked in a low voice, breath tickling her neck. "Not that it bothers me or anything, it just really brings the mood down."

I glanced back and saw that Danse was indeed scowling, boring a hole in the back of Deacon's pompadour wig. He caught her eye and looked away quickly, a faint blush tinting his cheeks.

"I've tried to get through to him," I sighed. "God knows I've tried. I think it's going to take more than anger and words to change that mindset."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that." Deacon squeezed my hip and drew me closer to him. That was surprising, Deacon wasn't one for physical- well, anything- but I had an inkling it was more for Danse's benefit than anything. Sure enough, when I glanced back, he was scowling even more furiously, staring straight ahead.

"What happened to not wanting to antagonize him?" I asked in a low whisper. I felt Deacon's slenderly muscled chest rumble with suppressed laughter.

"I can't help it, it's too much fun." He leaned close and nuzzled my ear. I jumped at the shiver it sent down my spine and winced. "And maybe," he asked in a low rumble, "you should be asking yourself why this bothers him so much."

The realization swirled in my head as we continued Sanctuary. Danse and I had been growing close over the last months, multiple missions involving certain levels of down time, playing blast radius or cards when we were both too anxious to sleep, working on various armor mods when we were between missions and holed up on the Prydwen. One time, when we were bunkered down in a Red Rocket Truck Stop in Lexington, Danse talked about his childhood in the Capital Wasteland as he cleaned his rifle, cross-legged on his sleeping bag, broad shoulders relaxed for once, his eyes the color of warm honey and bourbon. He looked so much like a normal person in that moment that I forgot the strict code of misguided "ethics" that bound him like chains. We'd argued so many times on that point I'd given up, resigning to being happy he was at least cordial around Nick. Hancock, on the other hand, was still a touchy point. Probably because Hancock could be an absolute dick when the mood struck him, whereas Nick was a perfect gentleman. Most of the time.

I sighed as the sign for Sanctuary came into view, the setting sun casting it in an orange glow so very similar to that of 200 years ago. It filled me with a calm sense of nostalgia, with the slight twinge of guilt and regret that accompanied such thoughts. Nothing sounded better than a nightcap and bed.

I woke sometime in the very early morning, side and arm aching. Stimpaks could only do so much, and I didn't like dabbling with med-x. My grandfather had been addicted to Opiates, and it wasn't something I wanted to test the limits on. I stood and stretched as much as I could, muscles tense and aching. Might be time for another glass of whiskey.

I pulled my jeans on, then my favorite t-shirt. It had a picture of the Nuka-Cola girl on it, blonde hair perfectly curled in her space helmet. There were a lot of perks to being the General of the Minutemen, but just as many down sides, one of which being there were always people in my living room. I shivered and shrugged on my thick aviator jacket. It was going to snow within the week.

I walked out to find Piper and Hancock lounging on my couch, empty wine bottles scattered across the coffee table. Piper had her head in Hancock's lap and was giggling intoxicatedly, while Hancock was braiding bottlecaps into her hair. I grinned as Piper caught sight of me and squealed.

"Blue, look! My hair is work a million caps!"

"Then you can hire someone to clean up my living room and replace my wine." I poured a double of whiskey into a glass and swirled it, leaning against the counter. "I want it done after you sleep this off, we savvy?"

"Yes ma'am, Whisper." Hancock saluted, sending Piper into another fit of giggles.

"What are you two doing up anyways?" I asked, taking a sip of the whiskey.

"I came over to check on you once I got back," Piper said with a hiccup. "But Dancer Boy said you were already asleep."

"And I was already busy drowning my sorrows," Hancock said, taking a swig out of a wine bottle. "I never say no to company. Especially not this little sweetheart." Hancock pinched Piper's nose and she giggled harder.

I chuckled as they continued bantering. Something caught my eye through the grimy window. Danse was sitting at the crew workbench, hunched over something. His muscular back was taught with tension. If I could see it from across the street, something was bothering him.

I pulled out another glass and filled it, then topped mine off. I walked out of the house gingerly, ignoring Piper's protest. As I approached Danse, I heard a sigh.

"Shouldn't you be in bed, soldier?" He asked in the long-suffering tone I'd come to know oh so well.

"I could ask the same of you." I closed the distance and brandished the glass at him. He looked up at me with tired eyes. He had taken off that god-awful hood, revealing the thick hair that was starting to need a trim. I would offer in the morning, when he wasn't so tired. The top of his jumpsuit was tied around his waist, and I was surprised to see that it was an olive green mechanic suit instead of his brotherhood uniform. A white t-shirt strained over his thickly muscled arms, his shoulder tattoo peeking out from beneath the sleeve.

"Couldn't sleep," He passed a hand over his face, unknowingly smearing grease across his forehead. I stifled a giggle. "trying to come down from the adrenaline."

"I brought a remedy," I said, wiggling the glass. He took it with a grateful smile and took a sip. I pulled a stool up next to the bench and sat facing him, sipping from my glass as well. I could feel the tension rolling off him in waves. He sat staring at the rifle on the bench, swirling the whiskey in his glass.

"You wanna talk about it?" He looked at me sharply, surprised by the question.

"Talk about what?"

"Whatever the hell has you wound up tighter than Maxson's button." He snorted and tried to maintain a stern face at the shot at the Elder, but in the end he grinned.

"Honestly," he started, downing the rest of his whiskey and wincing. "I'm just concerned about some of the signals from that raider camp. Not sure where they got them, but they had a decent stash of mini nukes and fat mans."

"Yeah, not good."

"I'm worried they're preparing for war."

I sighed and downed my whiskey. "I had the same thought." I stood and walked into the crew house, where the bar was, Danse following closely. I pulled a pack of cigarettes and a half full bottle of whiskey, lighting up a cigarette and pouring us both another glass. He sat on the couch with a sigh, leaning his head back on the back of the couch and closing his eyes. I sat on the opposite end of the couch, whiskey bottle in tow, kicking off my boots and putting my feet in his lap. He arched an eyebrow at me and smirked.

"At least give me a light if you're going to put your feet on me."

I chuckled and lit a cigarette for him (he was terrible at it) and passed it to him. He took a long drag and blew it out slowly. "So what should we do about it?"

"Until they openly threaten war?" I took a drag and a swig of whiskey, contemplating. "I think our best option is start mobilizing people between the castle and here, building up fortifications on the small farms. Tenpines, Oberland, Jamaica Plain, Somerville, the family farms that can't afford to relocate. Then we need to start rallying allies, I'm not sure how many people Des can spare… Goodneighbor may have some guns for hire, I can talk to Hancock about it. And maybe if we get Maxson REALLY drunk..."

"I don't know how well brotherhood soldiers would do here," Danse said, staring into his glass. "They may not be so willing to work with ghouls." I noted how he left Nick out of that equation.

"Then the Brotherhood will be the last resort, got it." I refilled his glass. "I think right now we should focus on inventory of Minutemen troops and weapons. Once we have that we can start checking out the old military bases for ammo and weapons, if need be."

"I think you're underestimating how many people would be willing to donate themselves to this." Danse patted my foot absentmindedly, staring at the ceiling. I was thankful I had bathed before I went to sleep. "The opportunity to completely eradicate the Raiders from the Commonwealth, buying us a minimum few months of peace of mind before we take on the Institute," my stomach flipped, wrought with guilt. "that's something a lot of people would die for. The Raiders have made life in the Commonwealth hell for way too long, they've killed a lot of people. There might be some people looking for revenge."

I contemplated that, swirling my whiskey in my glass. Danse was looking at me but I couldn't meet his gaze. I didn't like the idea of spearheading a deathwish campaign, but it may be the only choice.

"Well I think it's a good start," Danse drained his glass and reached for the whiskey bottle, his hard stomach warm on my feet. "We'll take another day to recover, and- "

"General!" Preston burst through the door, absent of his duster and hat, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. "A runner is here and is demanding to speak to you. He's saying he comes from the Raider Kingpin."

 _Fuck._ We both shot up in alarm, putting the cigarettes out and lacing up boots and jumpsuits. I was mentally kicking myself for not strapping on my pistol belt. I was getting complacent.

"Let's go." I said, half jogging out the door. Danse grabbed his rifle off the workbench, snapping a laser round into it with a broad determination. Despite the whiskey his brown eyes were clear and focused, and he gave her a confident and reassuring smile.

"Right behind you."


End file.
